Riding along the canal I keep my head down, look up when crows caw. I slow myself as I pass large bushes of lilac; bright purple. I lean in to get a whiff, receive a fragrant slap in the face. It reminds me of my granny. Fresh cut bouquet on the dining room table. She never raised a hand.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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